


Evermore

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Grief, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Sherlock, The Fall (mentioned), Wedding Preparations, not s3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: As Sherlock gets dressed for John and Mary’s wedding, his thoughts and memories consume him. John is slipping away and Sherlock must let him go … forever. But as he retreats into his Mind Palace, Sherlock doesn’t hear the familiar footsteps rushing up the stairway. Perhaps, in letting go, Sherlock gains the impossible.This work was inspired by Dan Stevens’ (as the Beast) rendition of "Evermore" from Disney’s live action film "Beauty and the Beast." It is beautifully heartbreaking as the Beast let’s go of Belle, and it reminded me of Sherlock having to let go of John.





	Evermore

“Into battle.”

_Truer words were never spoken_ thinks Sherlock as he studies the suit that hangs crisply and perfectly from the wardrobe in front of him. 

The suit he is “required” to wear to John and Mary’s wedding. 

The wedding he helped plan. 

Because that’s what Sherlock does when he doesn’t know _what_ to do. When his Mind Palace has abandoned him. When his sense of reason is clouded by sentiment. 

He takes action.

He reaches out his hand and strokes the coat’s lapel reverently between his thumb and index finger, admiring the beautifully tailored blend of fabrics and stitching, a symphony of dark hues and light, a synchronicity of practicality and artistry, not unlike John and him. 

_Yes,_ thinks Sherlock. _I am the material made of hundreds of fibers, interwoven and complex. And John … he is the unassuming thread, full of strength and resilience, that holds the pieces together._

_And now my thread is unravelling._

Sherlock’s breath catches and he abruptly awakes from his thoughts, dropping his hand quickly from the piece of fabric as if it had seared his skin. He takes a few steps toward his bed and begins to slowly unbutton his shirt but it’s difficult for his thoughts to stay in the present.

As he reaches the last button and rolls his shoulders to shrug off the piece of silky clothing, it gently cascades down his arms, as if somehow it knows he’s in turmoil and needs a compassionate caress. The garment falls to the floor but Sherlock barely registers its descent. 

He is already deep within his Mind Palace, remembering the times he and John touched. He thinks of the time when The Woman drugged him, and John, ever the caretaker, managed to get Sherlock into his own bed, then patted him gently before leaving him in his benumbed state. 

He remembers just recently when his attempts at a stag-do went awry and he and John lay together on the steps of 221B, just shy of full inebriation. He remembers feeling John’s body heat as they babbled about nothing, and yet it was everything to be that close to his blogger, his friend, his partner.

And finally, he recalls the night he and John were cuffed together, pawns in Moriarty’s game, holding hands, running through the streets of London. … Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

Sherlock shakes his head, startled by a soft cry, as if someone was in pain. He turns and looks around curiously. But not until he remembers that he is quite alone in the flat does he realize that the sound that had breached the walls of silence had come from his own lips. And the pain, indeed, was real.

He suddenly looks to the full-length mirror and gasps when he sees his reflection, stripped down to his pants, staring back. It’s not his semi-naked body that produces the shock; it’s his facial expression. Sherlock, usually the master of indifference, has been bitterly betrayed by his own eyes, which are tearfully glossed with the color of grief. 

He tears himself away from the painful reminder and grasps the suit on its hangar. He takes a steadying breath and methodically removes each piece of his ensemble, carefully laying them on the bed. It is a practice he learned as a young boy when the anxiety and chaos of boarding school became nearly impossible for him to bear. Unpack his clothing. Count the pieces. Put them away in an orderly manner. 

_If only it was as comforting to me now, as an adult, as it had been then, as a child._

He stares at the wedding uniform laying at attention. He picks up the shirt and slides his arms inside. For some reason his fingers tremble as he attempts to pull each button through its hole, and his devious mind scurries someplace deep and dark, placing him back at the pool, John strapped with an explosive vest and Sherlock’s hands shaking with adrenaline, trying to free his friend from Moriarty’s evil prank.

_That was the first time,_ thinks Sherlock. _That’s when I realized just how much John meant to me. … Means to me. But he’s leaving now. And my life will never be the same._

Sherlock looks around forlornly and finds that somehow he’s managed to put on his trousers. No doubt his transport is functioning on autopilot as he streams in and out of his Mind Palace.

Suddenly, his legs feel shaky and he sits on the edge of his bed, hands grasping his knees, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

_This is intolerable_. His mind rages. 

_I’ve lived most of my life without John Watson_. He stands and forcefully tucks in his shirt tails.

_I’ve done very well all these years without him nagging me._ He harshly puts on his waistcoat. 

_Caring for me._ He fumbles with the buttons. 

_Grieving for me._ He grabs the tie and whips it around his neck. 

_Caring is not an advantage._ He stands in front of the mirror looping and tugging unreasonably at the tie, finally tucking it inside his waistcoat.

Sherlock finishes and huffs at the brooding figure staring back at him. Then, he lets out another breath, this time more slowly as he realizes his anger is dissipating like a balloon with a leak, leaving Sherlock feeling wrung out and empty. 

He glances around the room and notices a small wrapped box setting on his bedside table. A best man’s gift, John had told him, to be opened before the wedding as he gets dressed.

Sherlock walks steadily over and sits down on the bed, plucking the box from its perch. He opens the small, attached card which reads:

 

_To Sherlock,_

_The best man I have ever known._

_John_

 

Sherlock opens the box to reveal a gorgeous set of sterling silver cufflinks. As he removes them from their home, feeling the smooth curves beneath his fingertips, he notices that there are tiny numbers etched into each one. As Sherlock furrows his brow and holds the first one up to get a better view, his breath hitches. He quickly pulls out the other one to study its etching. This time, Sherlock cannot hold in his emotion and releases a small, choking sob.

His eyes fill with tears to the point he can no longer read the engravings, but he knows what the numbers are and what they mean. He knows that those numbers will forever be branded into his mind, never to be deleted — one is the date he and John met so many years ago and the other is the date Sherlock returned to John after The Fall.

Sherlock closes his eyes and immediately finds himself in the caverns of his Mind Palace, engulfed in memory after memory, and the emotions that seem to tag along. From the moment John walked into Barts to the text Sherlock received from his friend just last night they trail Sherlock as he sprints from room to room, trying to outrun them all. In fact he’s tried to outrun them for years, but it’s no use. The memories are too quick. The emotions, too deep.

So he does the only thing he can think of and mentally sits down on the cold Palace floor, crosses his legs and lets the memories and emotions all wash over him — the takeaways and the quiet nights at home, the chases and the crime scenes, the arguments and the laughs. He feels giddy yet angry. Melancholy yet hopeful. 

And as the dust begins to settle around him, he feels robbed of what could have been, yet grateful for what was —The chance to share just a part of his life with the bravest and kindest and wisest human being he’s ever had the good fortune of knowing. 

He’ll tell John that in a few hours when he gives his best man’s speech. But for now, he sits mentally and physically as still as a statue. The quiet of his mind palace mirroring the quiet of the flat. 

He breathes steadily, and solemnity finally fills him. He knows that John is going. Moving on to a different life. A life where Sherlock will take a back seat and perhaps eventually may not even play a role. Yet Sherlock also knows John will always have a home in his Mind Palace. _That will have to be enough._

The tears that had threatened to spill have dried now, and his heart has returned to its normal rhythm. He opens his eyes, sniffs and releases a soft, deep breath. 

He’s made his peace with fate. 

He’s ready.

_Good-bye, John._

“Sherlock?”

The detective imagines he hears John’s voice, soft and tentative. Almost as if his friend is in the same room as him. 

_I’m doing it again. Straddling the world within my mind and the world in which I live._

“Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?”

This time the voice is louder. Closer. And Sherlock realizes that something is definitely wrong. He turns slowly to find John standing in his bedroom, dressed in full wedding garb, but panting slightly as if he’d been exercising or perhaps running.

Sherlock stares in confusion.

_Is this my mind’s trickery again? It must be. Remember, just because you wish it, doesn’t mean it’s real. … If I speak, will he disappear … again?_

Sherlock decides to risk it.

“John?” he timidly asks.

“Yes,” John awkwardly smiles in relief and takes another step toward the detective. “I know. Bit of a shock, isn’t it? I’m sorry if I startled you. In your Mind Palace, were you?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows, then suddenly, he’s on his feet and rushing toward his friend.

“John, are you okay? Is Mary okay? What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

John grabs the detective by his forearms, “It’s fine. I’m okay. Mary’s … okay. … I think.”

Sherlock cocks his head and John slides his hands away from the younger man’s arms and looks away.

“I needed to talk to you; to tell you something,” John continues. His gaze returns to the puzzled detective. “Look, can we maybe sit down somewhere.”

Sherlock silently leads them to the sitting room, where the doctor instinctively sits in his former chair by the fireplace. Sherlock takes his seat facing him. The look of confusion on his face now replaced by a steady focus. Reasoning. Deduction. Sherlock is back in his element.

“First—“ John starts. 

“You called off the wedding,” Sherlock blurts out.

John looks at him in semi-surprise then purses his lips.

“I should know better than to think I would be telling you news you hadn’t already deduced,” John says. “Yes, the wedding is off. The relationship … is over.”

The two men stare at each other for several long moments until surprisingly Sherlock is the one to break the tension.

“Why?”

John’s look of surprise returns. “I thought you would have deduced why.”

Sherlock looks at his friend in confusion and slowly shakes his head.

John rises quickly to his feet and begins pacing; Sherlock carefully clocking his every move.

John’s feet carry him over the carpet from the door to the window and back to the door again. His eyes dart wildly back and forth and his left hand clenches uncontrollably.

“I—I know this may seem crazy,” John starts.

Sherlock wants to argue that the entire situation is crazy, but he wisely, for once, stays silent.

“It’s just … God, this is unbelievable, even by _my_ romantic standards,” John murmurs in that self-deprecating way Sherlock loves. “But, it’s just … well … have you ever heard of the Red Thread of Fate?”

_Thread._

Sherlock’s brain goes offline for a split second, but he quickly forces it to recover so he won’t miss a moment of what John is struggling to explain.

“It’s the theory that, um, there’s this invisible thread and it’s … it’s,” John takes a breath. “And I know that you don’t believe in these things. I don’t even know if I believe in them. But … it’s just … you and me … I feel like we …” John suddenly stops pacing and closes his eyes, touching trembling fingers to his forehead.

Sherlock, seeing his friend in such distress, instinctively steps into John’s personal space and gently grasps his wrist, bringing the hand down and away from his face. Then, in a moment of courage Sherlock will never be able to explain, he slowly entwines his fingers with John’s and settles their hands between their chests. He can feel the vibration of their racing hearts.

John’s facial expression is a combination of something akin to fear and disbelief as his piercing blue eyes connect with Sherlock’s. He cannot bring himself to speak. So Sherlock does.

“It is one of several theories that there is an invisible thread that connects two people who are destined to meet. It originates from East Asia, I believe. And it is thought that these two people share an important story."

As Sherlock speaks, John’s face opens. The tumultuous grey of the last few minutes dissipating with a small glow that has sparked within the doctor’s glassy eyes.

“Yes,” John manages to whisper as the corners of his mouth tug ever so slightly upward.

“One theory is that the gods take a red cord and join two people by their ankles. Another one by their little fingers, or what you might call "pinky fingers." Which is actually interesting because when blood leaves the heart through the aorta it travels through several arteries, and eventually some of it flows through the ulnar artery in the hand. So, there is the thought that the two hearts are joined through the thread, which is tied to their ha—” Sherlock suddenly stops speaking as he notices John looking at him with an undecipherable expression.

Sherlock’s gaze is everywhere, searching and attempting to read John’s eyes, cheekbones, lips and jaw. But any deduction Sherlock makes is quickly overturned by another and he finds that he’s completely lost. 

_Why is John talking about threads? What does this have to do with Mary? And me? Why is John nervous? Why is he looking at me like that? His face … His eyes. … His brow. … His mouth. I’ve—I’ve never seen this expression on his face before. … Happiness? … No, not quite. It’s something … more … something … Oh._

And at that precise moment of discovery, Sherlock’s face gives him away, because John’s mouth slowly forms a soft smile. 

“Two hearts are joined,” John whispers, then takes his free hand and touches Sherlock’s jaw, rubbing his thumb lightly against his cheek.

They’re locked in each other’s gazes for several moments. Then, almost on cue, both men lean tentatively toward each other brushing their lips at first, marveling at the feel, then opening themselves to each other, sharing warm breath and quiet moans, gasping for more yet feeling complete. 

As they finally pull away to catch their breath, John looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “No matter what happens, it’s as if we’re connected.”

“The cufflinks,” Sherlock pants.

John nods his head. “Yes. The date we found each other and the date we found each other … again.”

Sherlock smiles fondly at his beloved blogger. “I don't believe in an invisible thread theory. But I do believe in us," says Sherlock. "We’ll always find each other."

John takes a breath. “I know. … That’s why I couldn’t go through with the wedding. It wasn’t fair to Mary. And it wasn’t fair to us. … I love you, Sherlock. … more than I can say.”

Sherlock can hardly believe what he’s hearing … seeing … feeling. All he knows is that John, _his_ John, the romantic fool that he is, loves him. And the two of them have been given a second chance to live their story. 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock answers as he pulls John closer, leaning his forehead against his friend’s. “And I promise … I will never let you down and I have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for any inaccuracies regarding the Red Thread theories or the human body arterial system, as my resource was the internet. :) I hope you enjoyed this little fic and thank you so much for reading!


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